Beautiful a Hundred Times
by Orlissa
Summary: Started out as a single story, now a series of one-shots, and my happy place for Skyeward stories. Chapter Three: Silk-Covered Steel. Three drabbles on how Ward percieves Skye and her body in three different ways. Please, note that the rating has been changed to M.
1. Beautiful a Hundred Times

**A/N: Okay, so actually, this little fic doesn't just exist on its own, but is a part of a bigger AU continuity I have been working on – but one that is painfully far from being published, knowing myself. But it works if you simply imagine that Ward never was HYDRA, or that he was, but was redeemed before Skye's father came into the picture, knows nothing about the guy, and his relationship with Skye is established. The Doctor's brush with S.H.I.E.L.D. happens (er… implied to happen) differently than in the show, but all the backstory we learned so far is in play. I know maybe I should have waited with this story, but this scene just wouldn't leave me alone, I desperately needed some fluff, and the whole Daisy stuff was just too good for me to pass on. With these things said, I hope you'll enjoy this little story.**

**Rating: K+**

**Word Count: 1023**

**Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]**

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><p>When her father is finally captured and securely locked up in the basement of the Playground, Skye asks to talk to him, alone. Ward is not sure what drives her exactly: the need to understand, the need to get closure, or simple curiosity. But he doesn't question her – that man is, after all, her father, even if the only thing that connects them is their DNA –, just simply escorts her to the door of the vault when Coulson okays the visit, kisses the top of her head, trying to give her a little strength that way, then watches her as she descends the stairs.<p>

And then leaves, giving her the space she needs right now.

He gives her an hour before he starts looking for her, first checking into the video feed of the vault to see if she's still there, then, when he sees that she has left, taking a look at the places he knows she likes to hide when she wants to be left alone: the old command center on the Bus, one of the older SUV in the garage, the little alcove just off the main corridor that everybody seems to miss when walking by, and, finally, the roof.

That's where he finds her.

She is sitting near the ledge with her back to him, her legs extended in front of her, her knees slightly bent, her small body only protected from the November chill by a jacket he recognizes as his. He approaches her, mindful not to be completely silent, to let her know that he is there, but even if she notices him, she doesn't let him know, at least not at first, but when he sits down next to her, she, almost instinctively, leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He embraces her with one arm, and waits for her to speak, if she wants to. If she doesn't, well, then he is content just to sit there with her for a little while.

"He is crazy," she says after a few beats of silence, her voice barely above whisper. "Batshit crazy, full-on psycho, and I…" Her voice cracks and she shivers, either from the cold or from the memory of her talk with her father. "He kept on talking about how I look like my mom and that this was not how he wanted our reunion to go, and then switched to how he'll take revenge and started ranting about how mom was special, and that I am special too, and that I have to fulfill my destiny or whatever, and… I lost it. I lost it and simply left." She hides her face in the crook of his neck, grips his sweater and starts crying, letting it all out, her body rocking with her sobs.

He can't do much, he knows. He just holds her close, pulling her into his lap, and caresses her hair, letting her know that he is there with her, that he always will be.

After a while her sobs quieten, turning into soft hiccups.

"He called me Daisy, said that is my name," she says scoffing, almost as if it was a joke, but her voice is tiny, almost afraid. "Daisy, what a stupid name. I mean it's…" She sniffs. "It's like a little girl's name with blonde locks in pigtails. It's just so not me. It's stupid," she repeats, as if it would make her point stronger.

He still doesn't say a word, only shifts her body a little – she lets him, and it is a little bit scary, because it almost feels like he was embracing a ragdoll – so he can rest his chin on the top of her head, almost every inch of their bodies touching.

"It's not that bad," he says softly into her ear after a while. "You know, in Hungarian, they call daisies százszorszép." Her body jerks a little as the foreign word rolls of his tongue, almost as if she was about to chuckle at the ridiculousness, the randomness of it.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asks, mumbling into his sweater. "To show off your language skills?"

"No, I just find it interesting, because do you know how its Hungarian name translates back into English?" When she shakes no, he continues, "Beautiful a hundred times. I think it fits you just right," he says, pressing a kiss to her hair, while feeling her tear-tainted smile against his neck.

"You are corny. And biased. I think I might have broken you."

"You might have, but do you know what? I don't mind, not anymore. And I might be biased, but it doesn't change the fact that I am right."

He feels her chuckle as she playfully punches his chest, then she encircles his neck, and pulls herself even closer to him, taking comfort in the warmth of his body, in his presence. He lets her, all the while gently caressing her arms, her back, until she starts shivering, this time from the cold and from exhaustion.

"I think we've been out long enough," he says, standing up, pulling her with him and helping her to her feet. "Let's get you back inside."

She nods in agreement as she brushes a stray tear off her face, then leans into him and lets him lead her to the stairway door.

"Do you think we will eventually get through this? This whole craziness?" she asks quietly about halfway through the roof. He sighs.

"Maybe," he says truthfully; there's no point in lying to her. "Eventually."

"Eventually…" she echoes weakly.

"But hey," she turns her towards himself. "I'll be with you all along the way, okay?" She nods. He leans down and kisses her softly on the lips. "But at first, let's focus small steps," he continues as he nudges her towards the door once again. "Like how you need a hot shower and a good night's sleep first."

"And a mug of hot chocolate."

"And a mug of hot chocolate," he agrees with a hint of a smile on his face as he closes the door of the stairway behind them.

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><p><strong>AN: This fic goes with saying that I sincerely doubt that Ward would speak Hungarian. First of all, why would he, it's a pretty unimportant country, even though it seems like S.H.I.E.L.D. operates here (by the way: I am Hungarian, and I live in Budapest. You can geek out). Secondly, it's a crazy language to learn. Not joking, its difficulty level is "low international organized crime because the bad guys can't learn the language" – it's not kidding, either, we actually had an FBI agent stationed here in Hungary giving a lecture at my university a couple of weeks ago, and he said this.**


	2. Come, Dance with Me

**A/N: After I published the previous chapter, I noticed that I was getting a fair amount of story alert notifications – which made me realize that I had forgotten the mark the story as finished. So I thought "what the hell?", and decided to turn this into a series of one-shots. From here on in, this is my Skyeward happy place – I am not saying that there won't be some tear-inducing, heart-wrenching pieces, but I guarantee no (long-lasting) discord between these two (we are getting enough angst in the series, we need some fluff to balance it). I don't know how long it will last. I don't know how often I will update. But, if you are interested, I am not against taking prompts (I did carry on a daily **_**Vampire Academy**_** drabble series of almost three years, after all) – you can leave them either here, or on my Tumblr (same nick). So… That's enough of me, let's get on with this story!**

**Rating: K+**

**Word Count: 1854**

**Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]**

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><p>When he gets back to the Bus after running a couple of errands – some S.H.I.E.L.D. related, some personal – on the ground, Ward expects the plane to be empty, save for maybe a couple of the technicians doing their job in the avionics bay. They are off duty, after all, taking a breather between missions, with permission the roam around the base and beyond, as long as they report back by take off the next morning. And, as far as he knows, everybody took the chance to stretch their joints a little bit, to get away from the Bus, even if only for a couple hours.<p>

And yet, as he climbs the spiral staircase to the main deck, he hears music – some kind of happy, bouncy, fast-paced pop song, growing louder and louder with every step he takes.

He tries to feel annoyed as he opens the door to the lounge area, because he so doesn't in the mood for this right now (at least he keep telling himself that), but he finds it damn hard, since he already knows, without visual confirmation, who is the culprit. Keeping a straight face becomes even harder – who is he trying to kid? He even cracks a smile in spite of himself – as he steps into the room and takes in the scene.

Skye's there, in the middle of the lounge, barefoot, in sweats and a tank top, her eyes closed, her hair wild, dancing with complete abandon to the music pouring from the speakers of the com system – which she's somehow rigged. He wouldn't call her dance erotic – it's far from that –, but it's alluring none the less. She has very little regard for the actual rhythm, but her movements are fluid and graceful in an untamed way, and filled with complete, pure joy. With freedom.

This is a girl who is completely comfortable in her skin.

For a moment or two he's torn between staying there for a bit, watching her, and slipping past her, without her noticing, never even mentioning the incident, but making a decision takes him a moment too long, and, in the end, it's made for him, as Skye, still dancing, turns towards him and opens her eyes, those deep brown orbs finding him.

He honestly expects her to be embarrassed, to turn off the music, to avoid his eyes, maybe even to blush a little, but, as it seems to be her habit, one that he is getting more and more fond of, no matter how dangerous it is, she surprises him. A mischievous smile tugging at her lips, she walks up to him, her hips never stopping, and extends her hand towards him, inviting him.

He takes a step back instinctively.

"C'mon, Agent Ward!" she says, almost mockingly. "Dance with me! Let loose a little!"

"No," he replies, although it doesn't sound as determined as he meant it to be.

"You don't have a program for it?" She is standing in front of him now, her hips swaying.

"I don't dance." Not "I can't dance". He can. He could. But he won't. Especially not to this.

But then she pouts.

She pouts, her eyes wide and pleading, and it's ridiculous, but it's killing all his resolve.

He sighs, drops his bag on the couch, shrugs off his jacks, then offering her his hand, he lets her lead him to the improvised dance floor, just as a new song, similar to the previous one, starts.

He starts off terribly. His movements are too rigid, too self-aware, too locked down. He is sure, if he were to look at the scene from the outside, it would look like Skye was dancing around a man-shaped tree. Or an ill-programmed robot, with limbs too rusty to mimic human movements.

Skye'd have a kick out of it.

But he is starting to get better slowly, he realizes. It's hard not to let up a little in Skye's company, especially when he realizes that he actually can do it, can let loose for a couple of minutes, and that he won't face any kind of repercussions afterwards. (Not that he planned anybody learning of this little dance of theirs.) He's getting bolder, answering to her steps better. It takes the whole song, but it dawns upon him that they are good together. Thanks to their daily training sessions they are already kind of attuned to each other, already familiar with the other's moves, but what really surprises him is that this connection they have works in this environment, in this situation as well.

And what surprises him even more is that he enjoys it.

Truly, genuinely enjoys it.

That's why when the song ends and Skye turns her back to him to reach for her laptop to turn the music off (she doesn't want to overstay her welcome, doesn't want to play too much with the fire), he grabs her hand (it's the first time he touched her since they started dancing), turns her back to him with a swift move, and leads her into dance.

This new song is some kind of rock'n'roll, the music unknown to him, but the beat, the rhythm very familiar – it's actually something he knows how to dance to. It's something with actual rules and steps, not just moving around based on a feeling.

He feels her tense up for a moment as he puts his other hand on her waist – she's startled, he can tell, she didn't expect him to continue this little game beyond what she insisted, but as he gently forces her into the basic steps of the dance, she relaxes. It's evident that she's never danced like this – just as he had never danced the way he just did a minute ago –, and her steps are clumsy, and she even steps on his toes once or twice, he has to admit, she is not that bad. Just like in combat training, she's picking things up quick.

Then, when she more or less has the basics down, he lets go of her waist and twirls her out and then back. She is startled at first, not having anticipated it, but then as he twirls her back she grins and lets out something that suspiciously sound like a giggle. It makes him smile – it doesn't make him smirk, or elicits a somewhat sarcastic half-smile; it paints an earnest, unbound smile on his face.

Encouraged, after a few sets of the basic steps, he grabs her waist with both hands, and lifts her into the air for a moment, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders as she throws her head back, laughing.

"Who would've thought that you have a little Danny Zuko lost in you?" she says with a wide grin on her face as he puts her down and twirls again.

"Who?" he asks a little confused, but still smiling along with her as he takes her hand again.

She frowns at his question, but doesn't stop moving.

"Remind me later!" she tells him just before he lifts her again, because it always seems to make her squeal with delight, and as unprofessional as it is, he could listen to that all day long.

The song ends way too soon, and he is nowhere near ready letting her go.

The next song on her playlist starts, but it's different than the previous ones – it's slow and romantic and dangerous. Maybe that's why she, again, moves towards the laptop.

Maybe that's why he, again, doesn't let her.

_(If you're already going to Hell, at least enjoy the road there.)_

He draws her close. Embraces her waist. She is startled at first. Her body tenses. (She didn't expect this.) Then she relaxes. Puts her arms around his neck. Rests her head on the crook of his neck. With her barefoot, her head fits just right under his chin. He inhales the scent of her hair. She sighs. He sighs.

It feels nice.

They are not dancing, not really, just swaying from side to side, enveloped in each other, losing connection to the world outside. Their bodies are touching, from head to toe, in a delicious connection, and he can feel as her heart beats and the warmth of her skin as his fingers slip just under her top – it's not quite erotic, but intoxicating without doubt.

This song seems to last an eternity and a fleeting moment at once, and doesn't end abruptly, but gradually becomes quieter and quieter, as if the orchestra was retreating.

They use the last notes of the song the pull away from each other – his arms still on her waist, her arms still around his neck –, while their eyes find each other. There's an unending moment of just gazing.

There's a pull, he can feel it, and he's sure she feels it too. Again this all-consuming, dangerous, apocalyptic pull, that has been visiting him more and more these days.

His eyes flicker from her eyes to her lips for a fraction of a moment. He knows she notices it. When he looks back into her irises, there's a daring twinkle in them. _Do it_, they seem to say.

He's too weak to resist.

"Bloody hell!"

The spell is broken.

They pull apart as more muttered curses accompanied with metallic clangs penetrate the lounge from below.

Ward shakes his head, as if he is trying to clear it of some kind of enchantment.

"I'd… I'd better go down and see what Fitz's up to and…" He clears his throat and points towards the open door with his thumb. "…Help him."

"Yeah, sure," she says, tugging at a lock of her hair, avoiding his gaze. Now she blushes. "I'll just pack this up – restore the system and everything," she nods towards the speakers.

"Sure, you do that."

They stand there for a moment more, their eyes meeting just for a second, then they both turn around, carefully putting placing the memory of their dance into a safe alcove of their minds, and then focusing at the task at hand.

Ward looks back at her from the door one last time, taking her in – her flushed face, wide eyes and disheveled hair – as she pulls up some kind of program on her laptop, then he shakes his head and descends the stars.

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><p>HYDRA comes out of the shadows before they could revisit the mystery surrounding the identity of Danny Zuko.<p>

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><p>It's months later at the Playground, and weeks after he is kinda-sorta back with the team – she is still mad at him, still doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to talk to him, because it hurts so damn much (this distance between them) –, when one evening the opening notes of a rather familiar song fill the corridors of the base, just before John Travolta starts singing that <em>I got chills and they're multiplying<em>, and a note is slipped into her room under the door.

_Do you want to dance with me?_

That evening, for the first time in a very long time, Skye's heart skips a beat and she smiles.


	3. Silk-Covered Steel

**A/N: I have no excuse for this other than that I have an exam on contemporary English literature tomorrow, and I spent the better part of my day reading about things like the role of virginity and the move from girlhood to womanhood in Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber, and how sexuality and science is linked in Tom Stoppard's Arcadia and what's the purpose of nadsat in A Clockwork Orange. So right now my head is full of a clatter of literature-nonsense, and I needed an outlet. So here it is. Not much of a plot, but some fluff, some smut, and maybe a little bit more lyricism than there is usually in my writings.**

**Rating: M**

**Word Count: 1520**

**Disclaimer: [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]**

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><p><strong>I. The Weapon<strong>

In the beginning, she frustrates him.

He can't really describe why. It's not sexual frustration. It's not even her snark, not really. He spends hours in his bunk during the night, not sleeping but staring at the ceiling and pondering on the reasons why she drives him out of his mind, even when he actually decides that he likes her as a person.

And then he realizes.

It's her differentness. Not just in mind, but in body, too.

He is all sharp lines and solid muscle, and that's what he is used to, May is just like that, too, but Skye… She is soft and rounded, all silk and padding. There is barely any muscle on her bones, under the satin skin. There's no real strength behind her movements – there is grace, some kind of nonchalant, born-with, not-learnt, down-played grace, but no strength.

One week in, and he is sure no matter what she does, she will never be strong enough, capable enough to be let out into the field. She is just not built for it. But still, he continues to train her, because she is determined to learn, and he is determined to give her everything to defend herself with (and he is also determined to keep her safe).

And then something changes. She surprises him (as she always does).

It doesn't happen overnight, but she progresses.

Her determination seeps into her punches. Her inner strength into her kicks.

Her muscles wake up, and he is there to witness the change.

Her baby fat (she is so young) is melting away. There is definition to her arms now, her stomach, when he catches a glimpse, starts to look toned. Her stance is better, she stands taller, prouder. Even her features, her cheekbones, the line of her nose, her jawline, are shaper now.

The girl who makes a joke out of everything is still there, he sees her in the twinkle in her eyes, but finally, he is starting to see the steel under the silk.

(He is still frustrated with her, but now it's different kind of frustration, and it is making his blood roar.)

**II. The Shrine**

He raises his head, and sees an expanse of hills and valleys, an exciting landscape of smooth, tanned skin in front of him.

Her skin is glistening with perspiration, and her chest is rising and falling in a slow, irregular rhythm.

_Good._

If she would look at her now, if she would see the smugness on his face, he is sure she'd laugh at him – not mockingly, but in a delighted way –, but right now she is too preoccupied with coming down from her high to care about him.

_Good._

He is not done.

He lets his hand slid up her leg as his lips start their pilgrimage northwards.

He kisses the soft swell of her pubic bone, the shallow valleys between it and her hipbones, the smoothness of her belly, tracing his tongue along the lines of the softly defined muscle. He dips into the pool of her navel, draws a line from it to the center of her ribcage, peppers kisses between her breasts. He plays with her nipples – and what a dirty game he is playing –, sucking in the right one first, the gently nibbling on the left one. He continues, tracing her collarbone, then biting into the soft flesh where her neck and shoulder meet, soothing the red marks he leaves with his lips.

Her breathing is becoming quicker once again, and his name tears from her lips in a whisper. It makes him shiver. She lifts her legs, trying to hook them around his waist, but he pushes her back down (she lets out a little, annoyed moan). But he doesn't stop her when one hand finds his head, slender fingers burying in his hair, while the other sneaks down his back, her blunt nails scratching his skin.

He sighs and groans and she whispers "please".

He was never good at denying her anything.

He reaches down and aligns himself with her, but doesn't slide in just yet.

First, like a good pilgrim reaching the end of his journey, knocks on the door, nudging her entrance, seeking permission to enter the shrine.

She sighs and bucks her hips and whispers "yes".

He crosses the threshold in a slow, unhurried pace, letting her adjust. Her walls are warm and wet and tight around him, and he feels like he's just entered heaven.

He starts his worship.

Her hands in his hair and on his back, his on her side and on her leg, now lifting it slightly, her lips open and chanting, his on her neck, they move together in a practiced dance. They do not hurry, but climb to the peak of pleasure slowly, helping each other along, whispering and kissing and loving, until they just can't take anymore, and her walls spasm around him, and he spills himself inside her.

And in this sacred place, he feels at home.

**III. The Creator**

He watches her, amazed. He just can't look at her in any other way nowadays.

She is not doing anything extraordinary – she is just standing in front of the bathroom mirror, still in sleep shorts and a tank top that is not quite covering her stomach, and is brushing her teeth.

And yet he is unable to turn his eyes away from her, or to get rid of the stupid, goofy smile on his face as he takes her form in from his position standing by the bathroom door.

He starts from the bottom, from her delicate feet, then moving to the slim ankles, the defined calves, the long, lithe thighs, all wrapped in soft, tanned skin. But the interesting part just comes.

His eyes slip to the soft swell of her belly, and his smile widen.

She is at that stage of her pregnancy when her condition is already obvious, but not yet keeping her from anything – there is a defined bump there, perfectly curved, but still small, the hips already widened a bit, but her waist still tapers a little just below her ribcage. The days of the morning sickness have passed, the time of swollen ankles and aching back is still ahead them, she is energetic, insatiable, irresistible, glowing.

He's never thought he'd get to experience this. He's never thought it would feel like this. This exhilarating, terrifying, exciting, horrifying, this amazing. He tries to catch what he is feeling exactly, but it keeps slipping from his clutches.

There's a life growing inside of her, getting bigger and stronger every day. There's a baby who exists partly because of him, because he gave a part of himself to Skye, and she took it, adding a part of herself to it, and now her body is the temporary home of their baby, constantly changing to accommodate her (he is hoping for a daughter). And it amazes him beyond words.

And he is already seen her, on grainy, black-and-white images. He's seen how she is changing – at first she was just a little dot on the screen, pulsing with heartbeat, then started to take a form, big head and small body at first, but the last time he saw her he could already make out where the eyes will be, he saw the plump lips and the delicate arch of an ear, the tiny arms and legs and the even tinier fingers and toes. It's strange, because she is here, but she is not, beyond reach and far away, and he just can't wait until she arrives.

Skye notices him watching, as she always does, and turns to him, foam almost dripping from her lips. Her eyebrows rise, as if in question, and he shrugs. As she turns to the sink to spit, he walks up behind her, sweeps her hair aside, and places a gentle kiss on her neck as one of his hands sneak down and touch her belly.

Skye says she can now, sometimes, feel the baby move. She describes it as tiny flutters, barely noticeable, as if there were butterflies flying around in her womb. He longs to feel it, too, but he knows that they are weeks away from that, so, for now, he simply caresses the taut skin of her belly, hoping that the baby feels it, if not the gesture itself, then at least the love behind it.

Skye puts down the toothbrush, and, her lips still a little white, turns around in his arms, and kisses him, her lips a silent reassurance that they will be alright. She knows that he is scared – scared for her, for their child, for the future –, because she is just like that and because she knows him.

But he is not just scared, but happy, too, happier than he's ever been (he thinks), so he kisses her back, his lips a silent promise to her, to them, a promise to love and to protect and to be there for them until his very last breath.

A promise he intends to keep.


End file.
